Safe House
by sudipal
Summary: After the fall, Sherlock seeks help from some old acquaintances


Spoilers: the most current seasons of _Doctor Who_ and _Sherlock_

Disclaimer: I own neither _Sherlock_ or _Doctor Who_ nor any of their characters.

* * *

Amy sat in her back porch, a mug of slowly cooling tea resting between her hands. A cool breeze brushed ginger hair over her face, but she ignored it as she stared ahead into the darkness. Silent and still, she only dared to move when, several minutes later, she heard a rustling noise off to her side, and a dark figure landed on her lawn from the tree branches above. Amy quickly stood and ran over to the man who was lightly brushing off the dust and debris from his coat.

"Sherlock," she whispered, hugging him tightly. The consulting detective responded with a pat on the back before pushing her off.

"Do you have what I need?" he asked, making his way toward the house.

"Is that it?" remarked Amy, a few steps behind him, but gathering speed. "You come to me for help, and that's all you have to say?" They were in the house now, and Sherlock was rummaging through a stack of papers left on the dining table.

He turned to her then, fury in his eyes. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded. "The whole world thinks I'm dead, but you know that isn't true. You need no explanation; you have all the facts already."

Amy stared at him with arms folded across her chest. After a moment, her hands dropped to her sides, and she said in a tender tone, "You've been through a lot recently. I'm sorry; I suppose my childhood psychiatrists would have called it transference."

Sherlock gave her a quizzical look. "Transference?" he repeated.

She sighed, and then explained, "I told you that the Doctor dropped Rory and me off here so we could live out a normal life together. But there's more to the story." She sat down in a nearby chair, and Sherlock did the same. "See, the Doctor made some very dangerous enemies."

"I don't see how that's any different than usual," said Sherlock.

"The difference is," Amy continued, "that these enemies comprised of a network so far-reaching that even your gigantic brain couldn't comprehend." Sherlock would have interrupted, but decided to just let her finish the story. "They wanted the Doctor dead, so that's what he gave them. He faked his death, just like you. And he's still out there, somewhere, fighting against them alone."

"If he faked his death, then how do you know he's alive?" questioned Sherlock.

Amy sat up straighter before replying, "River told me."

"Really? River? But, what's that she's always saying? 'Spoilers'?"

"I assume she knows what she's doing," Amy responded with the tone of an offended mother.

"Very well," said Sherlock, turning away from her gaze.

Amy stood up then and walked around the table which divided the two and knelt by his side, forcing the now infamous man to view her again. "You look tired," she told him, reaching out to stroke his hand in a soothing motion. "We have an extra bed in the guest room; rest up before you take off again."

"I shouldn't."

"Yes, you should. And have a nice, hot meal while you're at it."

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Not even John could make me, so what makes you think you can?"

"I've waited all my life, Sherlock. I'm pretty sure you'll break first." Before he could answer, Amy rose to her feet again and made her way over to the kitchen. She produced a large pot and a pan, grabbed an unopened box of pasta, and then began to prepare supper.

"By the way," Amy called out from where she was standing by the stove. "The things you were looking for are in the cupboard by the front."

Sherlock immediately went to where she had directed him, pulled out a small suitcase and a manila envelope from the back of the top shelf, and returned with them to the dining table.

"New phone," Amy listed off as Sherlock inspected everything. "Suitcase packed with fresh clothes and toiletries, psychic paper- courtesy of River; it'll get you into any place and past any one."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, placing the psychic paper into his inside coat pocket. "For everything."

It was at that moment the front door opened and Rory walked in with a mixture of both anxiousness and relief on his face as he took in the sight of his wife and the consulting detective. "Sherlock," he breathed. "I'd have thought you'd be gone by now."

"I've convinced him to stay overnight so he can rest up," Amy explained.

"Oh," replied Rory, coming over to wrap his arms around the woman he loved, who was almost done cooking. "Of course. Whatever we can do."

"You've both done plenty already."

"Amy and I both had experience losing our lives only to stop at nothing to gain them back. We won't leave our friend to fend for himself."

"Friend?" questioned Sherlock.

Amy and Rory exchanged glances. "Yeah," said Amy, as though Sherlock was the greatest idiot in the world. "Of course ya are. After all we've been through... Why? Do you not consider us friends?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, of all the adventures they shared with the Doctor, of all they had been through together fighting monsters and saving lives. "I do," he answered. "Fancy that."

"I still think you should've told John, though," admitted Amy, scooping spoonfuls of pasta onto three plates as Rory helped set the table.

"I 'died' in order to save his life," explained Sherlock. "Moriarty had access to the most talented sharpshooters and hitmen. I wouldn't be surprised if they were still trailing John just to be absolutely certain. If I let someone get hurt just because of sentiment then all of my intellect and training, everything I've done over the last few days, everything I've built up and subsequently lost, amounts to nothing." Sherlock took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. A part of him noticed that the so far untouched food on his plate was beginning to lose most of its steam. "I've set a plan. I already have leads to some of Moriarty's top men. Once I take them down, I can have my life back."

Amy stabbed a bow tie noodle with her fork, and said, "You'll miss John a lot, though. I can see that you already do."

"How would you know?" asked Sherlock.

"Because every time his name is mentioned, you get this sad sort of look in your eye. Face it, I've seen you and John interact; you care about him." She noticed Sherlock give her a peculiar look, which then immediately turned into a slight grin. "What?" she queried.

"You've never met John," he told her, his face practically beaming with joy.

"Of course I have!" exclaimed Amy. She instantly replayed her entire history with Sherlock in her head, and then realized her mistake. At that moment, she really hated time travel. "Oh."

"Interesting," said Sherlock, bringing his palms together as though he were about to pray. "So John and I will be reunited in the future. My plan will be a success."

"Still," Rory warned. "You don't know what might happen. Or how long it will take."

"Trifles," said Sherlock, waving his hand in dismissal.

"Be careful, Sherlock," Amy pleaded. "Just because you're dead doesn't mean no harm can come to you. And although I've seen you two together in the future, it doesn't mean it'll happen that way; time can be rewritten."

"I'll still proceed with caution," he informed them. "I'm well aware of the dangers which lie in my journey ahead." He finally picked up his fork and popped some noodles in his mouth. "But for now, I know that my friends and myself are safe."

"A toast then," said Rory, who had brought out a bottle of wine from the other room, pouring for each of them. He lifted his glass and declared, "That we'll all be reunited with our Doctors quickly and in good health."

"Here, here," Sherlock and Amy both cheered before all three sipped their drinks. The rest of the evening proceeded with a lighter tone, filled with stories and memories and laughter. And when Sherlock bid them farewell the following morning, they each knew that this goodbye was not at all permanent and that they would be reunited again given time.


End file.
